And to a hand on my waist. To a big, strong body pressed to mine. To an arm slung across my stomach.

  And something else.

  Something hard against my butt.

  Very hard. Very long.

  Soft, steady breath flutters across my neck, the gentle whoosh of a sleeping man.

  A man who is wrapped around me. Who’s snuggling me. Who’s erect.

  I don’t even try to fight off a grin. Inside, I’m doing a dance. No, a striptease, because Jones is hard as he touches me.

  But wait. I shouldn’t read anything into this. It’s not about me. It’s a three-thirty-in-the-morning erection. It’s a dream hard-on. It’s the body’s natural reaction to sleep.

  Only, I want to read everything into it, especially as he murmurs something unintelligible and tugs me closer, lining my body up against his. Like that, he buries his face in my hair, and I melt into a puddle of woman as he spoons me, breathing in my hair, his lips close to my neck.

  I should leave. But it’s my room.

  And he’s sound asleep, so I can’t kick him out.

  I have no choice but to stay like this, tangled up with him.

  I close my eyes and pretend he’s mine for now. I pretend he belongs to me, and we’re together, all through the night. I drift off like that, and it feels as if I’m floating on a cloud.

  When I wake at seven thirty, the bed is empty.

  He’s gone.

  9

  JONES

  “Jump!”

  Cletus takes off on command, scurrying across my parents’ yard and flying through the old tire swing hanging from a tree.

  “Dude!” I raise my arms, and he leaps at me. I bend to my knees as he hops onto my thighs, slathering me with a dog kiss. “Did you see that, Mom?”

  My mom laughs from her post on the porch, raising her wine glass. “I don’t know who I’m more proud of—son or dog. Both have serious athletic skills.”

  “Dog,” I answer as I put Cletus back on the grass and head to the deck. “The dog is way more talented.”

  “What’s really impressive,” my dad deadpans as he spreads barbecue sauce on a chicken breast on the grill that Sunday, “is that this kid who hated school is now teaching his dog all sorts of tricks.”

  “I didn’t hate school, Dad.”

  My mom chuckles, slapping her thigh. “And he’s a comedian, too, Paul.”

  He winks at her. “He always did make me laugh, Barbara.”

  Moving behind my mom, I drop a kiss to her head. “I had a B-plus average in high school, and don’t you ever forget it.”

  My dad flips a chicken breast. “How could she? You drove me crazy, kicking and screaming every step of the way to that B-plus.”

  I point my thumb at the house. “I’m going inside to see if I’ll be the recipient of less abuse from Trevor.”

  “Good luck with that,” my dad says, and Cletus stays outside with my parents as I go inside, where Trevor has set up for his beer show. Since we’re having lunch with them today, we’re shooting here.

  I slide the glass door closed and join him in the kitchen.

  I spit a mouthful of pale ale in the bucket at the counter.

  Shaking my head, I frown and stare longingly at the beer glass in my hand, which holds more of the tasty brew. “That pained me to expectorate.”

  Trevor jerks his head back and raises his eyebrows in appreciation. “Look at you. Using your SAT words.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  He drums his fingers on the countertop. “But tell me more about the suffering you endured during the ejection of this beautiful IPA.”

  He loves to talk in this over-the-top highfalutin manner for his show, and it cracks me up. But my job is to remain immune, a deadpan sidekick color commentator. “Allow me to explain. It pained me so greatly because this beer is absolutely delicious. It’s what I want to drink while I kick back, relax, and watch something as good as, say, Mission Impossible.”

  Trevor shoots me a curious look. “I thought for sure you’d say a game. You know, like a sporting event.”

  Me, too. I meant to say a basketball game, or a baseball game, my leisure viewing of choice.

  But my mind has been fixed on Jillian ever since the other morning when I left her room like my house was on fire. I can’t get her out of my head since the night I fell asleep with her in my arms. I’d like to say I simply conked out, barely even aware of curling up next to her. But that’s not true.

  I didn’t want to leave her. When the credits rolled and she was still sound asleep next to me, her warm body wedged against mine, I chose the path of least resistance—I closed my eyes and fell asleep, just for the chance to be near her.

  Waking up with her all soft and sleepy in my arms, wanting nothing more than to tug her close, turn her to me, and kiss her breathless, was hard as hell.

  Like my dick that morning.

  Which might’ve been why I took off like I was being chased downfield by a fleet-footed safety hell-bent on trying to tackle me before I reached the end zone. I’m not sure if I’ve ever skedaddled out of a room faster in my life. But if I didn’t leave, I might have tried more with her. More than cuddling, more than holding her in my arms.

  For all I know, she might not even be aware I spent the night with her. She might have slept like a log all night long. But either way, she clearly understood the score. Hell, she acted like it was no big deal. We were both cool and casual later that morning, like nothing had happened.

  And that’s exactly what did happen. Nothing.

  I return my focus to Trevor, and we finish out our latest episode of beer reviews. When we’re done, he slides a beer bottle to me.

  “To take home. For the next time you’re watching Mission Impossible,” he says, laughing. “That was a random reference.”

  “I guess my mind might have been on the movie, since I watched it the other night.” I clear my throat. No point pretending with him. “So listen. You know Jillian?”

  He looks at me, narrowing his green eyes. “I don’t know her, but you’ve mentioned her before. She was the woman you spoke with a couple weeks ago after golf. The one I said you were hot for?”

  Hot for was right at the time, but it’s changed a ton since then. It started as attraction. It morphed into lust. It veered into something stronger, and now, the more time I spend with her, the more time I want to spend with her. She fascinates me, and she intrigues me. Every time we talk, I gobble up all the morsels I learn about her. They feed me and yet make me hungry for more at the same time.

  I answer my brother with complete honesty. “I like her.”

  Trevor wraps up the wire for the camera as he tucks it away in a bag. “She kicks ass. She’s doing a great job with Paleo. Everything is moving along as it should, and Liam seems happy. He enjoyed meeting with you earlier in the week at the winery shoot, and the marketing team has been drawing up plans for your campaign. If this goes well, Ford thinks we can get you the quick-serve restaurant company soon. Organic Eats is the name.”

  “Everything is happening quickly. But that’s the thing. Everything is happening quickly with her, too. When I said I like her, I don’t mean just for work stuff. I like her a lot.”

  Trevor straightens his spine and holds up his hands as the full meaning registers. “Whoa. You’re involved with her now?”

  I shake my head. “No, and I have no idea if she’d even want that.”

  He rests his palms against the counter, meeting my eyes. “But you’d want that?”

  I sigh heavily. “Yeah. And it would probably be a huge mistake, right?”

  He claps me on the shoulder, shooting me a sympathetic smile. “If you’re asking me if it’s a good idea to get entangled with the person who’s supposed to be making sure you move beyond some of the mistakes of the past, I feel like you probably know the answer to that already. I’m not saying you should be celibate. I’m not telling you to never date because one dinner or one picture can be taken out of context. I’m just saying maybe now isn’t the time. You’re trying to turn things around in that facet of your career, and I wonder if maybe pursuing something with the woman tasked with helping you is the wisest move.”

  I scratch my chin, wishing for a different answer. “But is it the worst thing in the world?”

  He huffs. “Jones, you’re making this hard. It’s not the worst thing in the world, but what happens when it goes south? What happens when it ends in a few weeks, or hell, a few nights?”

  I start to protest, but he holds up a hand. “I love you, bro, but your attention never strays that far from the field. You’ve never had a relationship last longer than, what? A month?”

  “If that,” I grumble. I’ve dated here and there, but it’s been a long time since a woman was known as my girlfriend. My entanglements have run short and hot. I like Jillian a hell of a lot, but I’m not entirely sure what I’d do with any woman after more than a few nights together. It’s uncharted territory.

  “My point exactly. Even if something happened with her, even if you were all hush-hush about it, it’s not as if you’re going to settle down. Then it’ll be over, and in a month, when you need something from her for the deal or just for the team, how’s that going to be? That’s a whole new level of soap opera drama—the player and the scorned publicist—and you do not want to have to deal with that fallout.”

  Fallout.

  I force myself to stay on that word for a while longer, to picture it, to feel it. There would be a fallout. A massive, uncomfortable, awkward fallout.

  And what matters more to me isn’t the potential drama in working with her if things don’t pan out. The bigger concern is her. Her job. Her reputation. I like her too much to risk messing up her professional life. If word leaked out that we’d had a fling, it could affect her credibility at work. It could change how management views her, and also how the team treats her.

  I can’t let that happen. She loves her job. She’s great at it. She doesn’t deserve to be tarnished.

  “Things are turning a corner financially for you,” Trevor adds. “We’re getting you deals. This is what you wanted.”

  He sweeps his arm out to indicate our parents’ home.

  “Mom and Dad,” I say, nodding solemnly.

  I need the reminder. Taking care of my parents, buying them this house, giving them a comfortable retirement where my dad is free to grill on Sundays rather than head out for another long-haul truck route and my mom can sleep in rather than schedule extra shifts—that’s what matters.

  I need to do the right thing. Stay on the straight path. “Thanks, man. You’re right. You’re always right. You know what’s best.”

  He shoots me a skeptical stare. “But you’re not going to listen to me anyway, are you?”

  “Of course I’ll listen to you. Nothing has happened. Nothing will happen.”

  We join our parents on the porch for barbecued chicken, and I put Jillian out of my mind.

  And the next day, I head to the airport and board a first-class flight to Miami with the very woman I intend to resist.

  10

  JILLIAN

  I drink coffee on the plane. I down Diet Coke. I pop cinnamon Altoids.

  Six hours later, I’m bouncing off the leather seats, hopped up on caffeine, but I’ve successfully avoided drooling in Jones’s lap, sleeping on his leg, or even doing a head-flop onto his shoulder.

  I’m winning at resisting him ever since he took off from my room sometime in the wee hours a few mornings ago.

  One fully-awake plane ride later, we check in at our hotel. Both of us are on the third floor, but that shouldn’t be a problem since I don’t plan on spending time in his room, or vice versa. Heck, it might even make things easier when we head out for the photo shoots, since we have one every morning, including the day we leave. And after this trip, we’ll be done with the calendar photography so goodbye temptation, thy name is no longer Sleeping on Jones.

  As we turn away from the front desk in the sleek, teal-blue lobby of the Blue Dreams Hotel on South Beach, the moment of truth arrives. Will we do that awkward “should we have dinner” thing that business traveling companions do, or can I pull off another dart and dodge to avoid the dangerous five-foot radius around Jones that usually reduces me to unexpected cuddling, snuggling, and flirting?

  I wish my friend Andre was free tonight. He lives here and works for the local NBA team, but he has a date this evening, so I can’t use seeing him as an excuse to keep my distance from Jones. I’ll need to be strategic and find ways to maintain space between that man and me for the next three nights.

  I take a deep breath.

  Here goes.

  “I’m going to hit the gym,” he says, at the same time as I utter, “I’m going to take off for an evening walk.”

  He shoots me a grin. “Jinx.”

  “Jinx,” I say with a laugh.

  See? I’m pulling this off with panache and humor. Almost as if we never entwined our bodies in the middle of the night.

  I drop off my bags in my room, telling myself it’s better that we don’t hang out. Besides, the shoot tomorrow with the local shelter is a sunrise one, so I’ll need to be up early.

  I leave the boutique hotel and make my way to the ocean to take care of business. That business involves my phone, my bare feet, and the beach. Because tonight, the thermometer reads in the high seventies, a rarity for late July in Miami. The beach is my kind of bliss, with sand that’s soft and sugary and water that’s crystal clear and calm. I drop my big silver shades over my eyes, and drink in the tropical contrast to San Francisco. Back home, I’m surrounded by water and beaches, too, but the Pacific is colder, harsher, and our beaches are better suited for melancholy, solitary strolls while wearing jackets and thinking deep thoughts.

  Here, even at seven in the evening, the Miami coastline is a brochure for bikinis and stylish trunks, suntan oil and toned muscles. Gentle waves lap the shore, and sleek white boats glide across the water. I can’t deny that the view is quite lovely as I walk along the coastline, returning work calls to the West Coast, making sure I’m on top of my job.

  My last call is with my boss.

  “I’m going to need a bigger fan in my office,” Lily declares as we chat.

  I’m not really sure how that’s an agenda item, but she’s in charge, so I go with it. “Why’s that?”

  “Because these pictures of Jones Beckett are hawt, as in H-A-W-T. I’m looking at the calendar drafts so far,” she says.

  “Let’s hope men and women buy it in droves. I’ve already started the publicity for it, teasing fans that it’s coming.”

  “And the early buzz is excellent. By the way, how is everything going with Paleo Pet? Even though it’s not part of your regular assignment with the team, I think it will definitely look good when you talk to the general manager for the promotion.”

  “You do?” I hadn’t considered that aspect of the deal, to tell the truth. I said yes because I wanted to be helpful, and because I knew I’d learn new and useful skills. But if it gives me a leg up, that would be a nice bonus.

  “Absolutely. It shows everything you’re capable of doing in terms of massaging, presenting, and turning around a reputation. I’ve been doing some monitoring of what the public thinks of Jones and it’s already on the uptick,” Lily tells me, and I pump a fist. “And when it’s time for you to interview for the promotion in September, I’ll prep you for it. I want you to nail it.”

  “Thank you so much, Lily. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

  When we hang up, I’m reminded that this is what I want, and this is the next step in my career. I’ve been lucky enough to move up quickly in the job of my dreams. Though my mother would say it’s not luck, it’s focus, and she taught me that. While my father and I came first with her, she also balanced work and family with uncommon grace. She was home for me every day after school, but when I was in class she gave her all to her job. Every morning when she left for her psychology practice, she was energized. She liked to say her client sessions were her own form of caffeine. “Find something you’re passionate about. Nurture it. Cherish it, and watch it grow. But always tend to it,” she told me.

  When she and my dad gave me the cherry earrings after I nabbed the Renegades job, she said, “A reminder to keep making your own luck.”

  That’s what I’ve tried to do, by working hard, by giving my best every day.

  That’s one of the reasons I call my dad next—to get him up to speed on the latest at work and to ask for his advice in handling a thorny email I received from a reporter inquiring about training camp coverage. My dad offers his best tips for prickly journalists, and I thank him as a seagull swoops past me, hunting for french fries on the nearby picnic tables.

  “And how is that young man you’re smitten with?” my dad asks after we finish our work conversation.

  “I’m not smitten with him.”

  He chuckles. “You always did make me laugh. Next thing you’ll be telling me he doesn’t fancy you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He doesn’t like me like that.”

  “Denial is so entertaining. Can you do more of it? I find it amusing.”

  I snort-laugh but hold my ground. “Dad. Stop.”

  “Oh, please. Baby pictures? Who asks to see baby pictures?”

  I furrow my brow as my feet sink into the soft sand. “Everyone? Isn’t that normal, to want to look at baby photos?”

  “Nope. A man who is keen on a woman wants to see baby pictures. I know because I used that same trick with your mother back when I was courting her.”

  I weave around a group of women taking selfies in their microscopic bikinis. “But he’s not courting me,” I point out. “And just because I might have told you once that I thought he had a pretty face doesn’t mean anything will happen.”